It’s my last night in the house. The kids are in bed. It’s really, really quiet.
I’m sitting at the high kitchen table, where I always seem to end up working even though I have a desk in the dining room. There are a lot of boxes around but there’s still some packing to do — mostly random piles of clutter that will take some tedious going-through. I’m think I’m just going to swipe them into a couple of boxes and sort them out on the other end. Because the time for sorting and organizing is over.
Now is the time to mark the moment. An end. A beginning. A transition that is occurring right now as I write this.
The kids spent the day with my sister (THANK YOU, TREAS!) while my mom helped me pack (THANK YOU, MOM!). I picked the munchkins up and as we were all getting out of the car and I was digging out my keys, it struck me that this was the last time I was going to unlock the front door as a resident of this house. And it didn’t bring me to tears, although plenty of other things have. I felt resignation. “Yeah. There was going to be a last time. It’s now.” Megan whined that she was hungry and Benjamin chattered as I carried him and they had no idea that something significant was occurring.
My normal impulse is to turn things over and really try to get at the meat of what’s going on. But over the past few months I’ve had to learn to power down a bit just so I could do what needed to be done: details, logistics, tasks. They can be a nice distraction.
In my power-down mode, I don’t have a lot of insight into tonight. I don’t really have a lot to say. I just want to note The Moment. I want to nod my head and say, “I don’t quite understand you, Moment, but I know that you are important.” We don’t always know when the Big Moments are happening, so I might as well acknowledge one when I know it’s here.
If I want to address anyone, I guess that would be my house. I want to tell it that while I’m leaving it, I still have warm feelings for it in my heart. I’m comforted that my children will be able to come back here to a familiar place when they are away from me. I want to thank the house for being good to me. I want to part as friends.
I wonder if growing up in a military family is paying off right now? Moving must’ve gotten into my DNA along the line somewhere because it all feels pretty normal to pack up and start over.
Start over. Not totally but some. I realized today that as long as my kidsters are with me, I really have nothing to complain about. (But don’t hold me to that. Sometimes I find complaining to be entertaining. No, really.)
That’s all for now, blogmuffins. Signing off from this location. Next time I write to you all, I imagine that I’ll be at my desk, which will be tucked into the corner near the stairs, one of my favorite pictures hanging where I can see it. There will be spaghetti sauce on the stove (a house isn’t a home until you’ve made spaghetti sauce there) and the kids will be wrestling their way across the couch, laughing and ignoring SpongeBob on the TV as they burn off their evening crazies. I’ll be trying to squeeze in a little writing before dinner while they’re not paying attention. I won’t finish until after they’re in bed and the house is quiet. Really quiet like it is now.
And instead of boxes to fill there will be boxes to empty.
Nighty night, campers. See you on the other side.